


Swamped

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Gallows burn, but before the Inquisitor stumbles from the Fade, Hawke and Isabela lose their way in a swamp outside Nevarra.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swamped

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by mscalibrations on Tumblr: Isabela/Hawke, lost.

"Isabela."

"Hawke."

"I have some bad news."

"What is it, sweet thing? Did you lose the sandwiches?"

"No. I did eat one, though."

"Well, that’s all right, then."

"I think we’re lost."

Isabela glanced sideways at Hawke. She chewed on her lip, peering anxiously through the fog, the torch in her hand eating away at the last of its tinder.

"I knew it," Isabela muttered. "We should have gone north. I can’t even smell the sea anymore."

"I hate to remind you of this, but that was kind of the point.” Hawke sat down heavily on a nearby boulder, letting out a grateful sigh when the rock took the weight of her pack from her shoulders. “I love your ship, Bela, but she attracts a lot of attention.”

The torch burned out, leaving them in the dim light of the foggy swamp. Hawke tossed it into a nearby puddle, and then she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. “Maker,” she muttered. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

Isabela sat down, too, bumping her shoulder against Hawke’s. “You didn’t drag me anywhere,” she murmured. “If I didn’t want to be with you, you couldn’t keep me here. Wherever  _here_ is.”

Hawke laughed into her hands. “I wish I knew.” She rubbed the heel of her palms into her eyes and looked up, blinking.

"Well," Isabela said bracingly. "We shouldn’t go east. The Free Marches aren’t far—and Starkhaven. You know how I like to ask for trouble, but that’s a _lot_ of trouble.”

Hawke nodded. “Right. If only I could tell which way east is. Can you? This blasted fog—it’s got me all turned around.”

"It’s got to clear eventually." Isabela got back to her feet and held her hands out to Hawke. "Come on. We’ll find a dry spot to pitch the tent and wait it out. And  _then_ , we’ll go north.”

Hawke smiled and let Isabela haul her up. “What would I do without you?” she mused.

"Starve in this swamp, probably," Isabela said. She kissed Hawke’s nose, smiling back. "Why do you dwell on such morbid things?"

Hawke chuckled, setting off into the fog again. Isabela followed. Without the torch, progress was slow, but at long last they found an elevated patch of only slightly-damp ground, sheltered on one side by a broad tree. Hawke pitched the tent while Isabela built a fire. They worked in short bursts, stopping and listening every few minutes, but the only sound Isabela heard is the occasional splash of water, the incessant croaking of frogs, a far-off, weary bird. They were alone in this swamp, and safe enough.

"Save the sandwiches." Hawke strung her bow. She had never carried one in Kirkwall, and she had been rusty when she first picked it up again, but now she could hunt passably well with it. "I’ll catch something."

"Be careful," Isabela warned.

Hawke smirked—a spark of her old self, before her brow went permanently crinkled with worry. “I’ll try not to get eaten by a rabbit,” she replied, slipping away into the fog.

Isabela stayed close to the fire, letting it warm her aching muscles. She’d been a fugitive before, but this was something else entirely, for they were on the run from everyone, not just one man or one band of pirates. Maybe most people still wouldn’t recognize Hawke—she’d grown her hair out, dropped the ceremonial paint—but they still couldn’t risk staying in one place for long.

Varric’s last letter had made the situation very clear.  _They’re coming. Run._

Sometimes, Isabela wondered if they’d killed him—wondered how many more of their friends, scattered to the winds, were being held hostage by these so-called Seekers. Bethany had the Wardens to protect her, and Fenris was a weapon all his own, but what about Merrill? The girl could look after herself, but she was more prone to losing her way than Hawke. A misstep like that could get her killed, these days.

A raven fluttered into the clearing, alighting on a branch beside the fire. “Shoo,” Isabela said absentmindedly, waving a hand at the bird. It tilted its head to the side, considering her out of dark golden eyes.

"I mean it," she said, a little louder. "I’ve nothing for you."

One moment, the bird spread its wings; the next, a woman stood in its place, the hint of a smile on her lips. Isabela reached for her daggers. The mage held up a placating hand.

"I’m not here to fight," she said. Indeed, she wasn’t dressed for it; her lavish ball gown brushed the dirt with every movement. "If I was, believe me—I would have killed you already."

"Don’t bet on it." Hawke stood at the edge of the clearing, an arrow carefully aimed at the intruder. "How did you find us?"

The woman moved forward and settled carefully before the fire, her skirts rustling. She didn’t seem the least bit worried about Hawke’s bow or Isabela’s daggers.

"A hunch," she said. "There was talk at the last village you passed through. A scuffle with an ogre? They said only the Champion could have performed such a feat."

Isabela heard Hawke’s sigh—an angry, frustrated sound. Usually they wouldn’t have involved themselves, but Hawke had seen a child about to be crushed. She always did have a weak spot for children.

"You knew my mother once," the woman continued, looking up at then. The firelight caught in her eyes, and Isabela remembered suddenly where she’d seen that golden hue before: on a mountaintop, surrounded by graves.

Hawke frowned. “Morrigan?” she tried, sounding out the long-forgotten name. “Flemeth’s daughter?”

Morrigan bowed her head in acknowledgment. “The very same. I took great pains to ensure Flemeth’s death, and yet—she lives. I have heard…legends…of your involvement.” She looked past the arrow leveled at her breast, straight at Hawke. “I’d hoped you would tell the story. Without the frills, if you please.”

"You tried to kill your own mother?" Isabela interjected. "Truly? I mean, mine was nothing special, either, but that’s a  _little_ harsh.”

"You’ve seen what she is," Morrigan said, still looking at Hawke. "Had you not been in such a dire situation, would you ever have agreed to it?"

"I don’t know what she is," Hawke replied, but she lowered her bow. "I doubt you do, either."

"I am endeavoring to find out." Morrigan patted the log beside her. "Come. Let us talk."

"And then what?" Isabela snapped, because Hawke looked on the verge of agreeing. "You kill us? Turn us in?"

Morrigan raised her brows. “I let you go. I have no interest in the bounty on your head.” This, she directed at Hawke. “It is only your information I seek. I will not breathe a word of your whereabouts to anyone. This, I swear.”

Hawke sank down before the fire, pulling a dead rabbit free of her belt, and went to work setting up the roast. “It was a long time ago,” she warned.

"I trust that your memory is sharp here where it is not elsewhere," Morrigan dismissed. "Now. Start at the beginning."

Isabela sat, but she kept her daggers out. Hawke always wanted to talk to these blasted things—demons, spirits, angry innkeepers, the occasional assassin. Her curiosity often got the better of her; truth be told, Isabela was thankful for that trait. Hawke would never have kept after her, otherwise.

But when she ran out of words, Isabela’s blade would finish the job. Protecting Hawke had become her full-time purpose, and one witch wouldn’t stand against her daggers if she set one toe out of line.


End file.
